“Dammit!” he hissed, hopping on one foot, looking for what he banged his toe on.
An old bottle lay there. Inside was a scrap of paper.
He thought back to summer of his fifth grade year. Pirates were his fascination then. He’d read about marooned sailors sending messages off in bottles in hopes of rescue.
All summer he’d write notes, stuff them in empty soda bottles, screw the caps tight, and set them adrift. Not out of need for rescue. Just in hopes they might reach some distant shore. That someone might send back a reply in some exotic bottle from parts unknown. He would chase every bit of detritus that glinted as it bobbed in the surf just in case.
It never was.
Later he grew up and learned about ocean currents, weather patterns and how unlikely that his messages ended up further than a few miles down the shoreline. He also learned about global marketing. That anyone in parts unknown probably had the same boring coke bottles that he did.
He grabbed the bottle by the neck, and hurled it back into the Atlantic, once again off to parts unknown.
He hoped the weather was nice there.